


Reprieve

by 1848pianist



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Competency, Cooking, Domestic, Fluff, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 05:07:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2336393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1848pianist/pseuds/1848pianist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire has a good day; Enjolras finds his boyfriend's many talents super attractive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reprieve

**Author's Note:**

> This came up as an idea in a conversation with the eternally lovely audreyfan1001 of tumblr dot com. Much as I enjoy the plenitude of sad Grantaire fics – in fact, as much as the next E/R shipper – I really want more super-talented-human-being Grantaire. With as much awed Enjolras as possible.   
> In this fic, all the Amis live together along with Marius, Cosette, and occasionally Eponine, a theme I’ll return to in my soon-to-be-updated (hopefully) university AU. The house they share is based on a certain building I once visited in Chicago, which seems to have been made for thirteen college students to share.

Few days fall inside of Grantaire’s definition of “good.”   

Of course, if anyone asks that dreaded question, “How are you?” he will invariably answer “Fine,” and leave it at that. Whether or not they really want to know, he will not go into greater detail. His friends have largely given up asking, though not for lack of care. There’s simply no point in asking a predictable question with a predictable answer.

However, on occasion, they do ask.

And sometimes, though his answer never changes, Grantaire isn’t lying to them.

 

Today is one of those elusive good days.

There is no headache pressing behind his eyes when he wakes up, and more importantly, no weight of sluggishness or voice in his head whispering _what’s the point, really_ with his voice. He is awake, and it is morning. A rarity.

Perhaps no one else would count this as a victory, but it feels like one.

He doesn’t glance away from the mirror in the hallway. It’s not an enemy, today.

“Morning, R!”

Grantaire isn’t sure if Courfeyrac is actually a morning person or if he just likes people so much he’s willing to sacrifice his sleep. Either way, he’s guaranteed to be up before Grantaire, even on a good day.

“Good morning, Courfeyrac.” He’s grateful that Courfeyrac knows him well enough not to make a big deal of his early appearance, the way he most certainly would if Enjolras ever came downstairs before nine thirty.

Cosette greets him with an enthusiastic hug before returning her attention that Marius, still half-asleep, is trying his best not to make a mess of. He waves in Grantaire’s direction – he never says much around his housemates, but at least he doesn’t seem as intimidated by Grantaire as he is by Combeferre, for instance.

As if summoned by the thought of his name, Combeferre enters, nose already in a book and with mug of tea in his hand. He’s probably already eaten breakfast, and probably written a couple of essays while he was at it.

“Earth to Combeferre,” Cosette says as she watches his one-handed attempts to navigate the coffeemaker.

“Hmm?” he replies, and she shakes her head in defeat.

Grantaire takes over before Combeferre ruins the machine, reading the back of the book as he does so.

This, of all things, Combeferre notices. “Want to borrow it? I’ll be finished by this afternoon.” In high school, Combeferre meticulously calculated his reading speed, taking various genres and reading levels into account. He could probably predict his time to the minute if Grantaire asked.

He shrugs instead. “Maybe.” The book is more Enjolras’s area of interest, but he might read it just for the sake of discussion.

Courfeyrac has turned on his favorite Pandora station, which is currently blasting something Top 40 at high volume. Cosette is attempting to convince Marius to dance with her, a suggestion which is slowly draining the color from his freckles.

Not one to push, Cosette changes tactics. “Fine. You dance with me, Grantaire.”

He gives her a look – a skeptical one, but he doesn’t say no. She takes this as an invitation.

It’s been a long time since Grantaire last danced – long enough that he can’t remember when it was, in fact – but not much technique is required for kitchen waltzing. Marius is visibly relieved and goes back to making breakfast while Courfeyrac grins and begins recording the whole thing on his phone. Combeferre remains oblivious, absorbed in his book.

The song ends, Cosette twirling away from him, laughing and kissing Marius on the cheek. The coffeemaker finishes making ominous noises, indicating that something caffeinated and at least passing as coffee is ready. With nowhere in particular to be on a summer morning, the five of them spend the morning talking over an extended brunch.

Feuilly arrives downstairs just in time to do the dishes as per the chore list posted on the fridge. Grantaire helps, a little sorry that Feuilly’s turn landed on his only day off for the month.

By midmorning, he is back upstairs, contemplating the subject of his next painting to the soundtrack of an indie mix that Jehan made him months ago. Before he lays a brush to canvas, he feels hands on his shoulders and turns to see Enjolras looking sleepy and beautiful as ever.

“I haven’t seen you up this early in a while,” Enjolras says, looking pleased to see Grantaire awake. He’s right; while Enjolras will never have a reputation for being a morning person, he’s nearly always up before Grantaire is.

“I didn’t feel like sleeping,” Grantaire explains. Enjolras smiles, running his fingers through Grantaire’s hair. Happiness equal affection in Enjolras’s world.

“Can I watch you paint?” he asks.

“Sure,” Grantaire replies, though the request is unusual. Enjolras prefers working in the morning, presumably so he feels justified in taking free time in the evening. Today, he settles into the armchair pushed against the wall of Grantaire’s room, studying both painter and blank canvas with his usual intensity.

It’s easier to decide on a subject with a willing model present, so Grantaire begins outlining Enjolras’s form with smooth strokes. Enjolras rolls his eyes when Grantaire glances up at him, clearly aware of the source of Grantaire’s inspiration.

“I think you may have a bias in my favor,” he points out.

“I’m aware. So do you, since you’re the one being painted.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes again, but he’s smiling. “You could be a professional, you know.”

“Could have been, won’t be. But thanks.” He looks over so that Enjolras knows he means it.

 

For the next couple of hours, Enjolras is content to observe while Grantaire deliberates over color choices and, for long stretches of time, stares back at Enjolras. Probably more than he needs to, actually.

The painting is far from up to his standard, but he attributes that to lack of recent practice. His subject makes up for it anyway, he thinks. Enjolras is difficult to capture, but also hard to diminish. He decides it’s as good as it’s going to get – really not too bad.

“Ready for lunch?” he asks. “I’ll cook.”

Enjolras looks skeptical. “You hardly ever cook.”

“Which is why I’m offering. Special occasion.”

“Okay, but don’t ask me to help.” Enjolras has one specialty: soup. Everything else ends in disaster.

Grantaire laughs. “I wouldn’t dare.”

“Like you can do any better.”

“I can, actually.”

“Prove it,” Enjolras says, kissing him before he can say anything else. Grantaire follows him into the kitchen, slightly dazed.

Enjolras sits on the counter, obstinately in the way. “What’s on the menu?”

“Hadn’t gotten that far yet,” Grantaire replies, looking over the contents of the fridge. Not much to work with there. “Grilled cheese?”

“A culinary masterpiece,” Enjolras deadpans.

“Keep talking and you won’t get any,” Grantaire threatens. “Seriously, I’ll burn yours.”

“I actually kind of like burned toast.”

Of course he does, Grantaire thinks. “In that case, I will give you a _lukewarm_ grilled cheese.” Enjolras makes a face which clearly reads disgust.

Grantaire likes to talk while he cooks, which is probably why he doesn’t cook much. Few of his housemates have enough free time to listen to him ramble, unless they’re also helping with dinner. Grantaire tends to get stuck with the cleaning chores, though, given his unemployment. Current unemployment. He doesn’t mind – all in fairness.

He muses at length over history, art, the books he’s reading – he can never stick with just one at a time – and swiftly defends his position whenever Enjolras disagrees with his point.

“And, you know, the Greeks were great and all, but the Persian Empire was definitely the better deal overall—”

 “—except for the fact that Athens is the _birthplace_ of _democracy_ —”

“Enjolras, I love you, but it doesn’t count if the democracy is sketchy and only for certain white dudes, not to mention that an actual direct democracy would never work in a country with more than a few thousand people—” he cuts off, seeing Enjolras looking at him funny. “What.”

“How do you _know_ so much?”

Grantaire quickly looks down at the stove, hiding the grin on his face. “Secret talent.”

Enjolras snorts. “You seem to have a lot of those.”

Grantaire is pretty sure he’s blushing – lucky he doesn’t turn as red as Enjolras. “Oh, and look at that, your sandwich is burning.”

“Perfect.”

Grantaire finds plates for their still-slightly-smoking sandwiches, warning Enjolras that they’re still hot. This turns out to be necessary, because Enjolras has already taken a bite.

“Grantaire, this is…” he says, eyes wide.

“What? Not good?”

“… _incredible_. This is magic grilled cheese.”

Grantaire is sure that he’s blushing this time. “You’re exaggerating.”

“I never exaggerate,” Enjolras says, exaggerating. “How are you so good at _everything_?”

Definitely blushing.

“Please never tell any of the others that you can make magic grilled cheese, or there will never be sliced cheddar in the house again.”

“The secret ingredient is pepperjack, actually,” Grantaire mumbles.

“You realize that you have to start cooking for me all the time now,” Enjolras says, leaning against his shoulder. “I have the best boyfriend in the world.”

Grantaire is never going to stop blushing by this point.

 


End file.
